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almost necessary to pinch myself to see if I was really awake. It
seemed more like a fable.
On June 20th at 2 a.m. the “Heimdal” left the Bay with flying-men,
mechanics, and photographer on board. They were off to Brandy Bay
to fetch the machine. At eight next evening they were back with the
apparatus in good order. We were dining when they arrived, but the
hum of the motor brought us all to our feet. There she came gliding
elegantly along and landed immediately afterwards. Now we got a
holiday which we all keenly appreciated. It reminded me of my happy
days when I could lie in idleness in the country and get fat! Hundreds
of telegrams streamed in daily from all corners of the world. The King
and Queen were first to send a greeting: “The Queen and I wish you
and your companions welcome back. I thank you for your enterprise
and that you have again brought honor to Norway. Haakon R.” The
Crown Prince’s followed immediately after. Then came the Storthing,
the Government, the Universities, all the towns, a number of districts
and clubs and all the foreign Legations. Telegrams from abroad also
poured in with congratulations—one from the English King, the
German President, the Geographic and Scientific Associations, among
others. Those were hard days for the telegraphers here in the north,
but they were unusually smart. The telegraph service on board the
“Fram” and the “Heimdal” gave us invaluable assistance. In addition to
this the King’s Bay Coal Company’s telegrapher, Herr Hagenis, worked
at high pressure all the time.
On June 23rd “Hobby” left us to return to her home—Tromsö. It
was like losing an old friend, for we had been so glad to have with us
all these clever, splendid people, who went with her; Ramm and Berge
accompanied them.
St. Hans’ Eve was celebrated with due ceremony,—bonfire, song
and dance. The Coal Company’s chartered boat “Albr. W. Selmer,”
which came into the station on the 21st of June, was finished by the
25th with loading coal and took on board (the same afternoon) N 25
and the Navy’s two Hansa-Brandenburgers. They were shipped as
they lay on the water—N 25 forward and the two others aft. The “Albr.
W. Selmer” was suddenly turned into something which looked like a
cross between fish and fowl. The planes were stretched out at both
sides, and must have offered a most unusual sight to any ship meeting
her. “Selmer” was an old boat, but quite able to take the whole
expedition south. Furthermore, she had sufficient room to carry the
machines quite easily and could house all the members. Captain
Aasgard, her captain, and his officers made room for us with
customary Norwegian hospitality and kindness and we of the
expedition had the whole of the ship’s after-part given over to us. Thus
we had the officers’ quarters and saloon. It was hard to say good-by to
Knutsen and King’s Bay. We shall always hold as one of our dearest
memories the wonderful hospitality and kindly care which was shown
to us there on our return. At eleven o’clock the “Selmer” left King’s Bay
in glorious weather. The midnight sun stood high in the heavens and
the hills around were brightly illumined. From the “Heimdal” we heard
the sounds of them playing “Ja vi elker” and from the Station’s height
cheers broke out. The flags were dipped—one last farewell and the
Station disappears—our dear home—behind us. We were ten
passengers: Captain Hagerup, Lieuts. Riiser-Larsen, Dietrichson,
Horgen, Lutzow-Holm, Omdal, Zapffe, Feucht, Ellsworth and myself. It
was an unforgettable holiday—and festal journey. The intention was
that we should sail down outside the Islands all the way, anchoring at
Lang-Grunnen, from whence we should enter Horten. This, however,
was altered as time passed. We met a heavy swell coming from the
east, making it dangerous for our machines. We must therefore “hug
the coast” as quickly as possible, and at 11 a.m., June 29th, we passed
Fugleö. Telegrams continued to come in such numbers that the ship’s
second mate, who was also radio-telegrapher, was overworked. Near
Tromsö we were overhauled by the S.S. “Richard With,” belonging to
the Vesteraalske Steamship Company. As it passed, it hoisted its flags
and broke out into loud cheers, as all on board waved and shouted.
This was the first greeting we had had of this kind. Unexpectedly as it
came it absolutely overwhelmed us. It was a delightful greeting and will
never be forgotten. Now we had an idea what awaited us elsewhere
and as we saw the tremendous preparations in Tromsö Sound we
were prepared. Out shot two large flag-bedecked ships full of festal-
clad jubilant people. A little further forward we saw our old friend
“Hobby” so gayly decorated and so laden with people that she took our
breath away. Speeches were made, songs were sung and people
cheered. The passage through Tromsö Sound was triumphant—a
proof of the warm-hearted hospitality characteristic of the people. The
wonderful summer weather continued all the time and our journey
along the coast was like a trip through Dreamland. Our beautiful flag
was to be seen everywhere and greeted us with the same glowing
warmth. Fir trees and birches were dressed in their most lovely green
reminding us of Fairyland as we glided past. Here and there lay
solitary little fishing-boats and I felt many times a lump in my throat
when their sunburnt men stood up, raised their hats and sent us their
“Welcome Home.” It was a calm but deep welcome which, in contrast
to other more demonstrative greetings, filled us with emotion.
Outside Kristiansand we received our first welcome from the air. It
was the Fleet and the Army greeting us. Four Hansa-Brandenburgers
circled round us once and then disappeared.
On the afternoon of July 4th we passed Færder and entered Oslo-
Fjord and were met with jubilant crowds by air and by sea. At Fuglehuk
we encountered one of the most affecting scenes which we had lived
through all the time, the meeting between the flying-men and their
wives. The companion ladder was lowered, all heads were bared, and
the two women, who had borne the hardest part of the expedition,
climbed on board. If I only had command of all the world’s flags I would
dip them in honor, if I only had all the world’s guns I would fire them all,
to give these brave women a reception worthy of an Empress, for as
such I regarded them.
At eleven o’clock at night we sailed into Horten’s Quay. Any
attempt to describe this would be in vain. It was like the Arabian
Nights. I was happy to go ashore at Horten, for in the past I had
harvested so much good there that I was deeply grateful to this place.
Not one of my expeditions had ever set out without the Norwegian
Navy playing a great part; this last one being indebted in an
overwhelming degree. It was through the Norwegian Navy’s Air
Service that this last trip was really made possible. Thanks to their
liberal granting of necessary permission, thanks to their giving us
clever men; thanks to them again it was possible to set off on our
enterprise.
Thus came the day—the great, the unforgettable day—the 5th of
July, 1925. Summer favored us in its fullest glory. Who can describe
the feelings which rose within us as we of the N 25 flew in, over the
flag-bedecked capital, where thousands upon thousands of people
stood rejoicing? Who can describe the sights that met us as we
descended to the water surrounded by thousands of boats? The
reception on the quay? The triumphant procession through the
streets? The reception at the Castle? And then, like a shining crown
set upon the whole, their Majesties’ dinner at the Castle. All belongs to
remembrance—the undying memory of the best in a lifetime.
 Part II
THE AMUNDSEN-ELLSWORTH POLAR FLIGHT

By Lincoln Ellsworth
 THE AMUNDSEN-ELLSWORTH
POLAR FLIGHT
So long as the human ear can hark back to the breaking of
waves over deep seas; so long as the human eye can follow the
gleam of the Northern Lights over the silent snow fields; then so
long, no doubt, will the lure of the unknown draw restless souls into
those great Arctic wastes.
I sit here about to set down a brief record of our late Polar
experience, and I stop to try to recall when it was that my
imagination was first captured by the lure of the Arctic. I must have
been very young, because I cannot now recall when first it was.
Doubtless somewhere in my ancestry there was a restless wanderer
with an unappeasable desire to attain the furthest north. And, not
attaining it, he passed it on with other sins and virtues to torment his
descendants.
The large blank spaces surrounding the North Pole have been a
challenge to the daring since charts first were made. For nearly four
generations that mysterious plain has been the ultimate quest of
numberless adventurers.
Before this adventure of ours explorers had depended upon
ships and dogs. Andrée and Wellmann planned to reach the Pole
with balloons, but theirs were hardly more than plans. Andrée met
with disaster soon after leaving Spitzbergen. Wellmann’s expedition
never left the ground.
What days they were—those ship and dog days! What small
returns came to those men for their vast spending of energy and toil
and gold! I am filled with admiration for the courage and the
hardihood of the men who cut adrift from civilization and set out with
dogs or on foot over the tractless ice fields of the Far North. All honor
to them! Yet now what utter neglect it seems of the resources of
modern science!
No doubt the men who have been through it best realize what a
hopeless, heart-breaking quest it was. Peary’s land base at Camp
Columbia was only 413 miles from the Pole; yet it took him twenty-
three years to traverse that 413 miles.

LINCOLN ELLSWORTH AND N 24 JUST BEFORE THE START

Curiously enough, Peary was the first man with whom I ever
discussed the matter of using an airplane for polar work. That was
shortly before his death, and he was enthusiastic about the project.
Eight years later, in 1924, Captain Amundsen arrived in New York.
He had already announced his belief that the Polar Sea could be
crossed in a plane, and for those eight years my mind had not freed
itself of the idea. We had a long talk and, as the result, I brought
Amundsen and my father together. My father, too, became
enthusiastic and agreed to buy us two flying boats. Thus the
adventure began.

THE POLAR SEA FROM THE SKY

The island of Spitzbergen, lying just halfway between Norway
and the North Pole, is ideally situated to serve as a base for Polar
exploration. Besides its nearness to the Pole—ten degrees, or 600
nautical miles—a warm current, an offshoot of the Gulf Stream,
follows along the western and northern coasts of the island, and has
the effect of producing ice-free waters at the highest latitude in the
world. These were the principal reasons which prompted Captain
Amundsen and myself to choose Spitzbergen as a base for our
aeroplane flight to the Pole.
We wanted to be on the ground early in the spring and to make
our flight before the summer fogs should enshroud the Polar pack
and hide from view any possible landing place beneath us, for it was
our intention to descend at the Pole for observations. From April 19th
to August 24th (127 days) the sun never sets in the latitude of King’s
Bay, Spitzbergen, where we had established our base. Here one
may find growing during the long summer days 110 distinct species
of flowering plants and grasses. But from October 26th to February
17th is another story; the long Arctic winter is at hand and the sun
never shows above the horizon. Many houses have been built along
the Spitzbergen coast during the last twenty years by mining
companies who annually ship about 300,000 tons of coal, and King’s
Bay boasts of being the most northerly habitation in the world.
May 21st, 1925, was the day we had long awaited, when, with
our two Dornier-Wal flying boats we are ready to take off from the ice
at King’s Bay to start into the Unknown. We are carrying 7,800
pounds of dead weight in each plane. As this is 1,200 pounds above
the estimated maximum lift, we are compelled to leave behind our
radio equipment, which would mean an additional 300 pounds. Our
provisions are sufficient to last one month, at the rate of two pounds
per day per man. The daily ration list per man is:

Pemmican 400 gr.

Milk Chocolate 250 „
Oatmeal Biscuits 125 „
Powdered Milk 100 „
Malted Milk Tablets 125 „

At 4:15 p.m. all is ready for the start. The 450 H. P. Rolls-Royce
motors are turned over for warming up. At five o’clock the full horse
power is turned on. We move. The N 25 has Captain Amundsen as
navigator. Riiser-Larsen is his pilot, and Feucht mechanic. I am
navigator of N 24, with Dietrichson for pilot, and Omdal my
mechanic. Six men in all.
The first two hours of our flight, after leaving Amsterdam Islands,
we ran into a heavy bank of fog and rose 1,000 meters to clear it.
This ascent was glorified by as beautiful a natural phenomenon as I
have ever seen. Looking down into the mist, we saw a double halo in
the middle of which the sun cast a perfect shadow of our plane.
Evanescent and phantom-like, these two multicolored halos
beckoned us enticingly into the Unknown. I recalled the ancient
legend which says that the rainbow is a token that man shall not
perish by water. The fog lasted until midway between latitudes
eighty-two and eighty-three. Through rifts in the mist we caught
glimpses of the open sea. This lasted for an hour; then, after another
hour, the ocean showed, strewn with small ice floes, which indicated
the fringe of the Polar pack. Then, to quote Captain Amundsen,
“suddenly the mist disappeared and the entire panorama of Polar ice
stretched away before our eyes—the most spectacular sheet of
snow and ice ever seen by man from an aerial perspective.” From
our altitude we could overlook sixty or seventy miles in any direction.
The far-flung expanse was strikingly beautiful in its simplicity. There
was nothing to break the deadly monotony of snow and ice but a
network of narrow cracks, or “leads,” which scarred this white
surface and was the only indication to an aerial observer of the
ceaseless movement of the Polar pack. We had crossed the
threshold into the Unknown! I was thrilled at the thought that never
before had man lost himself with such speed—75 miles per hour—
into unknown space. The silence of ages was now being broken for
the first time by the roar of our motors. We were but gnats in an
immense void. We had lost all contacts with civilization. Time and
distance suddenly seemed to count for nothing. What lay ahead was
all that mattered now.

“Something hidden. Go and find it.

Go and look behind the Ranges—
Something lost behind the Ranges,
Lost and waiting for you. Go!”

On we sped for eight hours, till the sun had shifted from the west
to a point directly ahead of us. By all rights we should now be at the
Pole, for our dead reckoning shows that we have traveled just one
thousand kilometers (six hundred miles), at seventy-five miles per
hour, but shortly after leaving Amsterdam Islands we had run into a
heavy northeast wind, which had been steadily driving us westward.
Our fuel supply was now about half exhausted, and at this juncture,
strangely enough, just ahead of us was the first open lead of water
that was large enough for an aeroplane to land in that we had
encountered on our whole journey north. There was nothing left now
but to descend for observations to learn where we were. As Captain
Amundsen’s plane started to circle for a landing, his rear motor
backfired and stopped, so that he finally disappeared among a lot of
ice hummocks, with only one motor going.
This was at 1 a.m. on the morning of May 22nd.
The lead ran east and west, meeting our course at right angles.
It was an awful-looking hole. We circled for about ten minutes,
looking for enough open water to land in. The lead was choked up
with a chaotic mass of floating ice floes, and it looked as if some one
had started to dynamite the ice pack. Ice blocks standing on edge or
piled high on top of one another, hummocks and pressure-ridges,
was all that greeted our eyes. It was like trying to land in the Grand
Canyon.
We came down in a little lagoon among the ice-floes, taxied over
to a huge ice-cake, and, anchoring our plane to it, jumped out with
our sextant and artificial horizon to find out where we were. Not
knowing what to expect, I carried my rifle, but after our long flight I
was a bit unsteady on my legs, tumbled down into the deep snow,
and choked up the barrel. Our eyes were bloodshot and we were
almost stone-deaf after listening to the unceasing roar of our motors
for eight hours, and the stillness seemed intensified.
Looking around on landing, I had the feeling that nothing but
death could be at home in this part of the world and that there could
not possibly be any life in such an environment, when I was
surprised to see a seal pop up his head beside the plane. I am sure
he was as surprised as we were, for he raised himself half out of the
water to inspect us and seemed not at all afraid to approach, as he
came almost up to us. We had no thought of taking his life, for we
expected to be off and on our way again towards the Pole after our
observation. His curiosity satisfied, he disappeared, and we never
saw another sign of life in those waters during our entire stay in the
ice.
 Our observations showed that we had come down in Lat. 87° 44′
N., Long. 10° 20′ West. As our flight meridian was 12° East, where
we landed was, therefore, 22° 20′ off our course. This westerly drift
had cost us nearly a degree in latitude and enough extra fuel to have
carried us to the Pole. As it was, we were just 136 nautical miles
from it. At the altitude at which we had been flying just before
descending, our visible horizon was forty-six miles; which means that
we had been able to see ahead as far as Lat. 88° 30′ N., or to within
just ninety miles of the North Pole. We had left civilization, and eight
hours later we were able to view the earth within ninety miles of the
goal that it had taken Peary twenty-three years to reach. Truly “the
efforts of one generation may become the commonplace of the
next.”
When we had finished taking our observation, we began to
wonder where N 25 was. We crawled up on all the high hummocks
near by and with our field-glasses searched the horizon. Dietrichson
remarked that perhaps Amundsen had gone on to the Pole. “It would
be just like him,” he said. It was not until noon, however, of the 22nd
that we spotted them from an especially high hill of ice. The N 25 lay
with her nose pointing into the air at an angle of forty-five degrees,
among a lot of rough hummocks and against a huge cake of old blue
Arctic ice about forty feet thick, three miles away. It was a rough-
looking country, and the position of the N 25 was terrible to behold.
To us it looked as though she had crashed into this ice.
We of the N 24 were not in too good shape where we were. We
had torn the nails loose on the bottom of our plane, when we took off
from King’s Bay, so that she was leaking badly; in fact, the water was
now above the bottom of the petrol tanks. Also, our forward motor
was disabled. In short, we were badly wrecked. Things looked so
hopeless to us at that moment that it seemed as though the
impossible would have to happen ever to get us out. No words so
well express our mental attitude at that time as the following lines of
Swinburne’s:

“From hopes cut down across a world of fears,

 We gaze with eyes too passionate for tears,
Where Faith abides, though Hope be put to flight.”

That first day, while Dietrichson and I had tried to reach the N 25,
Omdal had been trying to repair the motor. We dragged our canvas
canoe up over hummocks and tumbled into icy crevasses until we
were thoroughly exhausted. The snow was over two to three feet
deep all over the ice, and we floundered through it, never knowing
what we were going to step on next. Twice Dietrichson went down
between the floes and only by hanging onto the canoe was he able
to save himself from sinking. After half a mile of this we were forced
to give up and return.
We pitched our tent on top of the ice floe, moved all our
equipment out of the plane into it, and tried to make ourselves as
comfortable as possible. But there was no sleep for us and very little
rest during the next five days. Omdal was continually working on the
motor, while Dietrichson and I took turns at the pump. Only by the
most incessant pumping were we able to keep the water down below
the gasoline tanks.
Although we had located the N 25, they did not see us till the
afternoon of the second day, which was May 23rd. We had taken the
small inflated balloons, which the meteorologist had given us with
which to obtain data regarding the upper air strata, and after tying
pieces of flannel to them set them loose. We hoped that the wind
would drift them over to N 25 and so indicate to them in which
direction to look for us. But the wind blew them in the wrong
direction, or else they drifted too low and got tangled up in the rough
ice.
Through all that first day the wind was blowing from the north
and we could see quite a few patches of open water. On the second
day the wind shifted to the south and the ice began to close in on us.
It was as though we were in the grasp of a gigantic claw that was
slowly but surely contracting. We had a feeling that soon we would
be crushed.
 On the third day, May 24th, the temperature was -11.5 c., and we
had trouble with our pump freezing. The two planes were now slowly
drifting together, and we established a line of communication, so that
we knew each other’s positions pretty well. It is tedious work,
semaphoring, for it requires two men: one with the flag, and the other
with a pair of field-glasses to read the signals. It took us a whole
hour merely to signal our positions, after which we must wait for their
return signals and then reply to them.
On this day, after an exchange of signals, we decided to try to
reach Amundsen. We packed our canvas canoe, put it on our
sledge, and started across what looked to us like mountainous
hummocks. After only going a few hundred yards we had to give up.
The labor was too exhausting. With no sleep for three days, and only
liquid food, our strength was not what it should have been. Leaving
our canvas canoe, we now made up our packs of fifty pounds each,
and pushed on. We may or we may not return to our plane again.
According to my diary we traveled the first two miles in two hours
and fifteen minutes, when we came upon a large lead that separated
us from the N 25 and which we could see no way to cross. We talked
to them by signal and they advised our returning. So, after a seven-
hour trip, we returned to our sinking plane, having covered perhaps
five and one half miles in about the same length of time it had taken
us to fly from Spitzbergen to Lat. 87.44. Arriving at our plane, we
pitched camp again and cooked a heavy pemmican soup over our
Primus stove. Dietrichson gave us a surprise by producing a small
tin of George Washington coffee. We took some of the pure alcohol
carried for the Primus stove and put it into the coffee, and with pipes
lighted felt more or less happy.
As we smoked in silence, each with his own thoughts,
Dietrichson suddenly clasped his hands to his eyes, exclaiming:
“Something is the matter with my eyes!” He was snow-blind, but
never having experienced this before, did not know what had
happened to him. We had been careful to wear our snow-glasses
during most of the journey, but perhaps not quite careful enough.
After bandaging Dietrichson’s eyes, Omdal and I put him to bed and
then continued with our smoking and thoughts. It seems strange,
when I think back now, that during those days nothing that happened
greatly surprised us. Everything that happened was accepted as part
of the day’s work. This is an interesting sidelight on man’s
adaptability to his environment.
All our energies were now being bent in getting the N 24 up onto
the ice floe, for we knew she would be crushed if we left her in the
lead. The whole cake we were on was only about 200 meters in
diameter, and there was only one level stretch on it of eighty meters.
It was laborious work for Dietrichson and myself to try to clear the
soggy wet snow, for all we had to work with was one clumsy home-
made wooden shovel and our ice-anchor. As I would loosen the
snow by picking at it with the anchor, Dietrichson would shovel it
away.
Looking through our glasses at N 25, we could see the
propellers going, and Amundsen pulling up and down on the wings,
trying to loosen the plane from the ice, but she did not budge. On the
morning of May 26th, Amundsen signaled to us that if we couldn’t
save our plane to come over and help them. We had so far
succeeded in getting the nose of our plane up onto the ice-cake, but
with only one engine working it was impossible to do more. Anyway,
she was safe now from sinking, but not from being crushed, should
the ice press in on her. During the five days of our separation the ice
had so shifted that the two planes were now plainly in sight of each
other and only half a mile apart. During all that time the ice had been
in continual movement, so that now all the heavy ice had moved out
from between the two camps. We signaled to the N 25 that we were
coming, and making up loads of eighty pounds per man, we started
across the freshly frozen lead that separated us from our
companions. We were well aware of the chances we were taking,
crossing this new ice, but we saw no other alternative. We must get
over to N 25 with all possible speed if we were ever to get back
again to civilization.
With our feet shoved loosely into our skis, for we never fastened
them on here for fear of getting tangled up, should we fall into the
sea, we shuffled along, slowly feeling our way over the thin ice.
Omdal was in the lead, myself and Dietrichson—who had recovered
from his slight attack of snowblindness the next day—following in
that order. Suddenly I heard Dietrichson yelling behind me, and
before I knew what it was all about Omdal ahead of me cried out
also and disappeared as though the ice beneath him had suddenly
opened and swallowed him. The ice under me started to sag, and I
quickly jumped sideways to avoid the same fate that had overtaken
my companions. There just happened to be some old ice beside me
and that was what saved me. Lying down on my stomach, partly on
this ledge of old ice, and partly out on the new ice, I reached the skis
out and pulled Dietrichson over to where I could grab his pack and
partly pull him out onto the firmer ice, where he lay panting and
exhausted. Then I turned my attention to Omdal. Only his pallid face
showed above the water. It is strange, when I think that both these
Norwegians had been conversing almost wholly in their native
tongue, that Omdal was now crying in English, “I’m gone! I’m
gone!”—and he was almost gone too. The only thing that kept him
from going way under was the fact that he kept digging his fingers
into the ice. I reached him just in time to pull him over to the firmer
ice. I reached him just before he sank and held him by his pack until
Dietrichson could crawl over to me and hold him up, while I cut off
the pack. It took all the remaining strength of the two of us to drag
Omdal up onto the old ice.
Our companions could not reach us, neither could they see us,
as a few old ice hummocks of great size stood directly in front of
N 25. They could do nothing but listen to the agonizing cries of their
fellow-men in distress. We finally succeeded in getting over to our
companions, who gave us dry clothes and hot chocolate, and we
were soon all right again, except for Omdal’s swollen and lacerated
hands. Both men had lost their skis. In view of the probability of
being forced to tramp to Greenland, four hundred miles away, the
loss of these skis seemed a calamity.
I was surprised at the change only five days had wrought in
Captain Amundsen. He seemed to me to have aged ten years. We
now joined with our companions in the work of freeing the N 25 from
her precarious position. As stated before, when Captain Amundsen’s
plane had started to come down into the lead, his rear motor back-
fired, and he was forced to land with only one motor working, which
accounted for the position which we now found N 25 in. She lay half
on and half off an ice floe; her nose was up on the cake and her tail
down in the sea. Coming down thus had reduced her speed and
saved her from crashing into the cake of old blue ice, which was
directly ahead. It seemed amazing that whereas five days ago the
N 25 had found enough open water to land in, now there was not
enough to be seen anywhere sufficient to launch a rowboat in. She
was tightly locked in the grip of the shifting ice.

N 25 ABOVE THE POLAR PACK JUST BEFORE LANDING AT 87° 44′

A most orderly routine was being enforced at Amundsen’s camp.
Regular hours for everything—to work, sleep, eat, smoke and talk;
no need to warn these men, as so many explorers had been
compelled to do, not to give one another the story of their lives, lest
boredom come. These Norwegians have their long periods of silence
in which the glance of an eye or the movement of a hand takes the
place of conversation. This, no doubt, accounts for the wonderful
harmony that existed during the whole twenty-five days of our
imprisonment in the ice. One might expect confusion and
disorganization under the conditions confronting us. But it was just
the reverse. We did everything as if we had oceans of time in which
to do it. It was this calm, cool, and unhurried way of doing things
which kept our spirits up and eventually got us out of a desperate
situation. No one ever got depressed or blue.

N 24 AND OUR ARCTIC HOME

We elected Omdal our cook. Although we felt better nourished
and stronger after our noon cup of pemmican broth, it was always
our morning and evening cup of chocolate that we looked forward to
most. How warming and cheering that hot draught was! Captain
Amundsen remarked that the only time we were happy up there was
when either the hot chocolate was going down our throats, or else
when we were rolled up in our reindeer sleeping bags. The rest of
the time we were more or less miserable, but never do I remember a
time when we ever lost faith! The after-compartment of our plane—a
gaunt hole—served as kitchen, dining-room and sleeping-quarters,
but it was draughty and uncomfortable, and it seemed always a relief
to get out into the open again after our meals. The cold duralumin
metal overhead was coated with hoarfrost which turned into a steady
drip as the heat from our little Primus stove, together with that from
our steaming chocolate, started to warm up the cabin. Feucht always
sat opposite me—I say sat, but he squatted—we all squatted on the
bottom of the plane with our chocolate on our knees. I remember
how I used to covertly watch him eating his three oatmeal wafers
and drinking his chocolate. I always tried to hold mine back so as not
to finish before him. I had the strange illusion that if I finished first it
was because he was getting more to eat than I. I particularly recall
one occasion, two weeks later, after we had cut our rations in half,
when I purposely hid my last biscuit in the folds of my parka, and the
satisfaction it gave me to draw it out and eat it after Feucht had laid
his cup aside. It was the stirring of those primitive instincts which,
hidden beneath the veneer of our civilization, lie ever ready to assert
themselves upon reversion to primitive conditions. We smoked a
pipe apiece of tobacco after each meal, but unfortunately we had
taken only a few days’ supply of smoking stuff. When that went, we
had to resort to Riiser-Larsen’s private stock of rank, black chewing
twist. It took a real hero to smoke that tobacco after moistening it so
as to make it burn slower and thus hold out longer. It always gave us
violent hiccoughs.
We were compelled to give up our civilized habits of washing or
changing our clothes. It was too cold to undress, and we could not
spare the fuel to heat any water after our necessary cooking was
done.
During all our stay in the ice I never saw Captain Amundsen take
a drink of water. I was always thirsty after the pemmican, and when I
called for water, he said he could not understand how I could drink
so much water.
Captain Amundsen and I slept together in the pilot’s cockpit,
which we covered over with canvas to darken it at night. I was never
able to get used to the monotony of continuous daylight and found it
very wearing. With the exception of Riiser-Larsen the rest of the men
slept on their skis stretched across the rear-compartment to keep
them off the metal bottom. Riiser-Larsen had the tail all to himself,
into which he was compelled to crawl on hands and knees.
It took us a whole day to construct a slip and work our plane up
onto the ice-cake. The work was exhausting on our slim rations, and,
besides, we had only the crudest of implements with which to work:
three wooden shovels, a two-pound pocket safety-ax, and an ice
anchor. Through hopeless necessity we lashed our sheath-knives to
the end of our ski-sticks, with which we slashed at the ice. It is
remarkable, when one considers the scant diet and the work we
accomplished with these implements! Captain Amundsen
conservatively estimates that we moved three hundred tons of ice
during the twenty-five days of our imprisonment up there in order to
free our plane.
The floe we were on measured 300 meters in diameter, but we
needed a 400-meter course from which to take off. Our best chance,
of course, would be to take off in open water, but the wind continued
to blow from the south, and the south wind did not make for open
water.
Riiser-Larsen was tireless in his search for an ice floe of the right
dimensions. While the rest of us were relaxing, he was generally to
be seen on the skyline searching with that tireless energy that was
so characteristic of him. Silent and resourceful, he was the rock on
which we were building our hopes.
The incessant toil went on. On May 28th the N 25 was safe from
the screwing of the pack-ice. On this day we took two soundings,
which gave us a depth of 3,750 meters (12,375 feet) of the Polar
Sea. This depth corresponds almost exactly to the altitude of Mont
Blanc above the village of Chamonix. Up to this time our only
thought had been to free the plane and continue on to the Pole, but
now, facing the facts as they confronted us, it seemed inadvisable to
consider anything else but a return to Spitzbergen. The thermometer
during these days registered between -9° c. and -11° c.
On May 29th Dietrichson, Omdal and I, by a circuitous route,
were able to reach the N 24 with our canvas canoe and sledge. We